Ghosts that We Knew
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. This is them, without the spite; without the grudge and resentment. Just Sam and Quinn.


**A/N: **So, recently, a very good friend of mine had gone through rough breakup with her long-time boyfriend and had requested a story to cheer her up. It's nothing much, just something small and simple for her, and hopefully this story had done its job.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Ghosts That We Knew**

**15 April, 2014  
****6:30pm**

He was a nervous wreck; a fucking mess as he wiped his clammy palms on the soft material of his washed-out denim jeans. The elevator dinged and the door slid open, but as he stepped in, a sense of claustrophobia overwhelmed him with an impact of a freight train. Gamely, he choked it down and chalked it up to the stress of the situation. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he watched the digital numbers blink in an anxiousness he hadn't felt since his first day at McKinley High ten years ago.

The sight of his brand new Porsche greeted him down at the basement, only to be painfully disappointed when all he felt was the same emptiness in the hollow depths of his chest. It physically hurt to look at it now; to be reminded of his foolishness every single Goddamn day. He scowled at the car, its polished red exterior gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights mocking him almost and very nearly, he wanted to set it on fire. Instead, he unlocked it with a practiced ease and slipped into the posh leather seat.

His cellphone beeped, piercing through the silence. Fishing it out of his pocket, he saw her name flash on the screen, followed by an incoming text message.

_Will be late. Meeting ran a bit longer than anticipated.  
-Q_

Always so formal, mechanical and polite even when she wasn't technically speaking to him. After the separation, their relationship had backpedaled into mere strangers in the streets. It was only months later that they decided the best course of action was a divorce. They were each at the peaks of their careers, each too selfish—too coldhearted and proud—to admit that everything about their love was failing.

Their successes were measured by the size of their bank accounts, the location of their properties, the lavish expenses and tailored suits—anything but the happiness in their lives—but just for one day, this one last time, they're attempting to be themselves.

The cotton of his T-shirt felt weird against his skin, his sneakers a testament to the years they had spent in the cupboard, and he couldn't remember the last time he had dressed so casually that didn't involve sitting in front of the television or working out at the gym.

Or perhaps he could.

He wasn't sure.

Shifting the car into gear, he drove out of the lot and into the dreary weather. Dark clouds were looming overhead, gray promises of an impending thunderstorm that came with the territory of spring in New York City. He hated it, like how he hated the two months he had spent in wet London, and he could use a bit of sunshine at least.

Traffic was horrible, as usual; it kind of made having a supercar redundant in a place that lacked the speed on the roads. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he made a turn at a junction, thinking that he'd just have to go the longer route or he'd still be stuck in the jam for the next hour or so. Besides, he had time to spare. Perhaps a good drive would settle his jumpy nerves.

Temporary insanity.

A familiar stretch came into view; their university town. It looked as though the higher authorities responsible for school spirit had thrown up all over the streets and adorned every inch and corner with streams of blue and yellow. He came to a stop at a red light and in his peripheral, caught sight of a couple strolling down the sidewalk—sickeningly sweet with interlocking fingers and adoring glances, sharing a cone of ice cream between them—and in a shocking moment of weakness, a series of montages flashed before his eyes.

Of them.

Of the simpler times before the complications; before the deceit; before the misunderstandings; before the rush of the city caught up to them.

Of the times when they were just Sam and Quinn.

* * *

**8 years ago…**

The list for the season's starting varsity team was out and eighteen-year-old him was eager to know which position he would be playing for. Coach Bieste had mentioned repeatedly what a promising star he was, almost guaranteeing him the spot of quarterback, and his heart was thudding uncontrollably in his chest as he jogged down the hallway towards the bulletin board.

A small crowd of his teammates had already gathered, and in the midst of adolescent bodies, he noticed Noah 'Puck' Puckerman's trademark Mohawk in the epicenter of it all. Nobody noticed as he approached until he jostled to the front, and the abrupt stillness that overcame caused a sinking feeling in his gut. Finn Hudson—the dude vying for the same position—seemed torn between a grimace and a smirk, and when he turned to face his best buddy, Mike Chang, the feeling of dread only became an amplified echo in his ears.

With bated breath, he dragged his eyes up to read the piece of yellow paper pinned to the corkboard. He scanned through it once, and then twice, and then one final time before a wave of panic washed over his person. His name was nowhere on the list, but then he reckoned it was probably just an error—or a sick joke—and decided he should go talk to the coach about it.

Someone clapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm sorry, man," Mike murmured, sincerely apologetic.

"This is fucking bullshit," he hissed, fingers clenched into fists at his sides. "There has to be some kind of mistake."

"Look," the Asian place kicker said. "Being in the reserve team isn't a bad thing. There's still a chance you could be bumped up if something happens."

He shrugged the other guy off. "You don't have to pacify me, Chang," he spat out. "I don't need your fucking sympathy."

"Sam, come on—"

Taking a step back, the group parting for him, he held his hands up. "Just don't, okay."

His exit was probably a bit overdramatic—later on, he would cringe at the sheer cliché of it all—but as he trudged down to the faculty office, fuming and seething, he didn't think he'd give a bleeding arse if he threw a bitch fit and had it uploaded on YouTube. Without bothering to knock, he barged in to find Coach Shannon Bieste seated behind a desk creating game plans.

"There's been a mistake, Coach," he all but demanded, slamming his palm down on the oak surface and balancing the fine line of possibly getting himself expelled from college. "I'm on the fucking reserve team. What the hell does that even mean? I thought you were going to make me a quarterback."

The Coach—a stoic and stern woman that she is—obviously wasn't taking any of it and promptly jumped to her feet. "Get out of my office," she began calmly with an undercurrent of something dangerous.

He conveniently ignored her. "You knew what that spot meant to me and you gave it to Finn Fucking Hudson. What is it that he does that I don't?"

"Respect," she shot back, spewing the word out like bitter venom. "Something that you, young man, need to learn on the field and in my office."

"That's a fucking load of bullshit—"

"Also, your grade point average has fallen below a C-minus," Shannon retorted, tossing a file straight to the center of his chest. "Now, Evans, I'm sure you were there at the start of the year when I specifically mentioned to everybody in the team that one of the criteria to be selected for starting varsity was a solid B—"

"That's not even fair—"

"Did I or did I not say that?"

"Yes, you did but—"

"Then I rest my case," she concluded with a punctuated rap on the table. "Now, you can either get out of my face before I lose it and kick you off the team permanently, or you can continue your insolence and I call campus security to escort you out. The choice is yours."

A string of offensive profanities were on the tip of his tongue, but by some miracle, he had half the mind to reel it in before he could do further damage to himself. With his tail tucked between his legs, he stormed out and headed for the one place he knew that he could seek some calm and solace.

The football field.

He climbed up the bleachers just as the cheerleaders were clearing out, and it was tragic how he barely even spared them a single glance; not even when he knew that Santana Lopez was eyeing him like a hungry tigress about to devour her prey. Brooding and sulking, he slumped down on the plastic seats and released a frustrated groan even though what he really wanted was to scream his lungs out. It wasn't his finest hour; he was glad there weren't anybody around to witness his little shit-fest, but it quickly grew old, moping about like a petulant child.

"Hey, you okay?"

His eyes snapped up, and it took him a moment before he noticed the blonde cheerleader addressing him from where she had been packing the pom-poms. She had a hand to her forehead and shielding her face from the sun, and another akimbo on her hips. He squinted down at her, wondering if he knew her by any chance but all he could see was a girl in a yellow tank top and blue shorts, a ponytail and the most gorgeous pair of legs he had ever seen.

"Yeah," he replied. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

It stunned him for a while and he wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the genuinely concerned tone in her voice, or perhaps it was the fact that she was talking to him at all. Either way, she intrigued him well enough.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Hard to believe, considering you're sitting by your lonesome," she quipped.

"Yeah, well…"

There was an awkward pause.

**You saw my pain washed out in the rain  
****Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins  
****But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart  
****And you knelt beside my hope torn apart**

"I'm Quinn, by the way."

He grinned; he couldn't help it.

"I'm Sam."

**But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view  
****We'll live a long life**

* * *

**15 April, 2014  
****7:05pm**

He was startled out of his deep reverie by the blaring of a horn. Blinking the haze away, he noticed that the light had turned green and flickered his gaze up to see an annoyed driver of a blue Saab flip him off through the reflection in his rearview mirror. The offensive gesture was completely unnecessary, and for that he wasn't about to play nice and do the courtesy of apologizing.

"Motherfucking son of a bitch," he muttered scornfully, deliberately revving his engine. Tires squealing, he pulled away in a rude cloud of white smoke.

Regardless of what his actions portrayed, he swore his temper had improved over the years—he had managed not to blow up at his incompetent secretary in over a week—more so than the hotheaded demon he had once been, and he suppose, where credit was due, it was on most parts because of the undulated patience of his ex-wife. As much as he hated to admit it now—considering their frigid circumstances—she had been his sole pillar of support through his childish rants and frustrated outbursts. Even those God-awful times when all they could afford was bread and milk, and were constantly behind on the rent, she hadn't left him.

Perhaps she ought to.

Was probably why she did.

It was his fault, wasn't it?

Maybe so, but it didn't escape his notice how she would spend longer hours in the office, or how she stuck to her side of the bed and acted as though it was revolting to touch him, or that tiny moment of hesitation before she kissed him back. Of course, soon after, he learned of the new guy at work—her all-too-charming colleague by the name of Biff McIntosh—and how he had camped out in his car outside of her office building to pick her up for dinner, only to see them striding through the doors in a cacophony of giggles and flirtatious grins.

She was having an affair, wasn't she?

Anger surged in his veins that night. Half of the plates and glasses had been the victim of his rage. When he had confronted her about it, giving her grief and wrath in a fit of thunderous fury, she hadn't taken well to the accusation. She had denied any involvement short of professional; a statement that he had simply thrown back in her face. Words were exchanged, tears were shed, and she had all but stormed out of the apartment and hadn't returned for days. When she did, it was only to gather more stuff and clear out half of her wardrobe.

**So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light  
****'Cause oh that gave me such a fright**

Things only went downhill from there.

So preoccupied he was mulling over their failed marriage and blaming as much as he can on her, that he almost missed a turn. He swerved at the last minute, scaring a random pedestrian who was crossing the road. A smirk crept into his full lips, born from an age-old satisfaction of making someone squirm, though it quickly faded the instant his green eyes landed on a bold red-and-white signage ahead.

Breadstix.

Slowly, he rolled to a stop.

**But I will hold as long as you like  
****Just promise me we'll be alright**

* * *

**8 years ago…**

Their first date.

It had taken him three fucking months to work up the courage to finally ask her out. Weeks of failed attempts and people just getting in the way whenever he so much as uttered four words to her, and he had had about enough. He quickly decided that the best time to approach her would be when she was done with practices, and so on a fine Wednesday afternoon, he leaned against the hood of his car and waited for an hour and a half before the first trickle of the squad emerged from the showers.

Spotting her wasn't the problem—she stood out so perfectly, he had to be blind not to see such a beautiful woman—however, it was the fact that she had about three other cheerleaders hanging on to her left, right and back, yammering at top speed; it would be impossible to infiltrate their gossiping barrier and steal her away.

And then she noticed him.

He lifted his hand and gave an abashed wave, and then watched with warm adoration as a radiant smile spread across her soft features. With a few parting words to her fellow teammates, she broke away from the group and headed straight for him.

"Hi, Sam," she beamed, positively joyful and bright.

His mouth ran dry, sandpaper for his tongue, and of the hundred speeches he'd thought up in his mind, none made it past his throat. Self-consciously, he ran his fingers through his shaggy mop of hair. He probably looked pretty stupid, gaping at her as he struggled with coherency, but then he felt the light brush of her fingertips against his and it all came pouring out.

"Hi, Quinn. I—you look gorgeous today—I mean, every day, not that you don't usually look gorgeous, but you do, and I was just wondering if you'd like to—if you don't have any prior plans, that is, you know, if you wouldn't mind—to go grab a bite or dinner or something to eat; considering you must be famished after two and a half hours of grueling practice, and one should always replenish one's nutrients, and I know this great place—well, I say great, but it's not that much better than any other diner, really—but they have these amazing breadsticks that come in a basket and—"

"I'd love to."

It took him a good moment to realize that she had spoken, and that she had, in fact, agreed. Barely able to contain his huge grin, he scrambled to open the door for her, swiping his arm out in a grand gesture that left her giggling.

They arrived at the diner fifteen minutes later and were ushered into a quiet booth at a far corner. On his recommendation, they both ordered a plate of spaghetti meatballs. Conversation came surprisingly easy, and when the famous breadsticks were placed on their table, she made a casual remark about their impressive length.

"Quinn Fabray, is size really all that matters to you?" he teased, innuendo implied.

She broke the appetizer in half, her hazel eyes twinkling elfishly. "Well, it's certainly one of the many factors for consideration."

He leaned closer with faux seriousness. "And what, may I ask, are the other factors, then?"

Tapping her chin with a finger, she pretended to ponder over his question. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, definitely," he murmured, his gaze firmly planted on hers. "Wouldn't want to disappoint you."

She arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I promise."

* * *

**15 April, 2014  
****7:20pm**

A small smile played upon his lips at the memory, once innocent and untainted, now overshadowed by their jaded spirits, and he heaved a sigh. Still seated in the comforts of his 911 Turbo, Sam watched as people entered the establishment, going about their own lives and wondered for the umpteenth time what had gone horribly wrong in his life with her.

What happened to being in love?

God, they had been wild and carefree in college, shouting each other's name up at the stars, going on impromptu road trips during the weekends, constantly joined at the hip or talking with their cellphones glued to their ears, thumbs flying across the keypads to see who texted 'good morning' first, and just utterly, disgustingly in love.

When did all that stop?

Eventually, he got out of the car, and with his hands jammed into his pockets, made the sour journey over. It wasn't for any reason, really, but he requested for a table by the window and asked for a cup of coffee that he knew would be bland and diluted but couldn't be bothered anyway. He thanked the waitress as she set the beverage down before him, and reflexively reached for the sugar and milk even though he usually drank his caffeine black.

His hand froze in mid-stir, a lump in his throat.

This was how she took it every morning.

**So lead me back, turn south from that place  
****And close my eyes to my recent disgrace  
****'Cause you know my call  
****And we'll share my all  
****And our children come and they will hear me roar**

He didn't have long to contemplate the intent behind it when a flash of yellow caught his attention. His pulse jumped when he noticed that all-too-familiar Volkswagen Beetle as it was being parked in an empty lot. Seconds later, the door to the driver's side opened and her blonde head emerged, those amazing shapely legs and the rest of her following closely behind. Having been so accustomed to seeing her in a blazer and pencil skirt, he was stunned to find her in a simple white sundress and matching flats. Her hair, usually up in an elegantly-styled bun, was now a cascading waterfall of golden threads down her shoulders.

After all those years, she was still so fucking beautiful.

"Hello," she greeted evenly as she scooted into the opposite side of the booth.

"Hey."

"Since when do you drink your coffee with milk?" she asked, all the curiousness and none of the vermin.

He blinked down at his drink, and then pushed it towards her. "Well, it's—it's yours, actually."

She tilted her head, regarding the cup with reluctance. "Really?"

"I promise."

Her eyes instantly snapped up to meet his, the significance of his words like a blow to both their senses; the tension that weren't there before now multiplying in bucketful. The silence hung like fragile pieces of glass hanging by a frayed strand of cotton, shattered only by the background buzz of patrons and the clanking of silverware.

They clung on, neither one wanting to let go.

And then the waitress appeared, clearing her throat.

"What would you lovely folks like to order?"

"Erm—" Quinn stammered, snatching up the menu from its holder and flipping through it, and for a moment, he was delighted in the blush that flooded her cheeks.

"Spaghetti and meatballs for me, please," he calmly informed the server.

"I'll have the same."

Honestly, he hadn't expected that, and when the waitress left, he was still openly staring at his ex-wife as she set the menu back to its original position and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. A pool of warmth expanded throughout his body to the very tips of his toes, because this, this is them.

**So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light  
****'Cause oh that gave me such a fright**

This is them, without the spite; without the grudge and resentment.

Just Sam and Quinn.

"You still remember it?"

She paused. "Remember what?"

"Our first date."

The corner of her lips twitched in a playful grin. "I remember you falling on your ass when you tried to kiss me."

Sam grinned.

**But I will hold as long as you like  
****Just promise me we'll be alright**

He remembered that too.

* * *

**8 years ago…**

He didn't know what to do with his hands that called for appropriate—whether he should thread his fingers through hers, or perhaps drape his arm around her—so he left them dangling in clenched fists by his sides, more than hoping that perhaps she would make the first move. However, as they climbed higher up the flights of stairs leading up to her dorm room, he began to realize that he was fast running out of time frame to man up and do what he really wanted to do.

The evening had gone better than he could ever imagine. At least he hadn't made a massive fool out of himself by dripping sauce on his shirt or dribbling soda down his chin—it had been a while since he'd last exercised his flirting skills, after all—and if her buoyant giggles and laughter were any indication, he reckoned she had had as great a time as he did.

They came to the third floor landing, and that was it.

His hand shot out to grab hers before his head could catch up. However, in the split second that he was about to haul her into his arms, he lost his footing and stumbled, tripping down the set of steps and landing, sprawled on his bum.

"Oh, my God," she gasped, eyes wide. "Are you okay?"

From the undignified spill and the embarrassing thereafter, he let out a grunt.

"Yeah, just bruised my ego, is all."

Folding her arms across her ample chest, she glanced down as he gathered himself back up. "What were you trying to do, anyway?"

He mumbled something intangible.

"Sorry, what?"

There was no recovering from this mortifying ordeal now.

"I wanted to kiss you."

Instead of bursting out in cackles at his stupidity, she clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes at him. "And you couldn't have just done it in a less jeopardy-friendly way?"

He shrugged.

"I thought I'd make an impression."

* * *

**15 April, 2014  
****8:10pm**

"It worked, though, didn't it?" he smirked, twirling a lump of spaghetti around his fork.

She daintily dabbed at her lips with a napkin before answering, "sure; on the fifth date. I'm pretty sure that's a world record. Who waits till the fifth date to kiss someone? I almost came to terms with the fact that it might not ever happen."

"I was trying to be a gentleman," he snorted.

"Of course."

He narrowed his eyes and pointed a spoon at her. "You don't sound convinced."

"I think you were just being a big chicken," she quipped back before taking a sip of her soda.

"Can you blame me? You were pretty intimidating."

She propped her elbows up on the table. "Oh, yeah? How so?"

"Come on," he scoffed. "You were the head cheerleader; every fucking boy on campus wanted to have a shot with you, and I was kicked out of the football team for knocking out the quarterback—"

"You had some serious anger issues," she snickered.

"Point is," he continued, subconsciously reaching out to swipe his thumb over a spot of sauce that she had missed at the corner of her mouth. "I always felt that I wasn't good enough for you."

"Sam…"

It wasn't until he'd suck his digit clean did it occur to him what he had just done. Inwardly, he grimaced, fearing what he would find on Quinn's face because it had been so natural to fall back into old habits; he had forgotten that he wasn't allowed free rein on touching her anymore. The silence was palpable between them—a crossroad in the moment—and reluctantly, he lifted his gaze up to meet hers.

**But hold me still, bury my heart on the coals**

"Erm…" he coughed. "Sorry, I didn't—I wasn't—"

"What is this, Sam?" she asked, her tone clipped and abrupt. "What are we doing here?"

He knew an impending row when he saw one, and if they weren't careful, they might end up making a spectacle of themselves right in the middle of public domain—something he thoroughly wished to avoid. How had they gone from tender civility to icy hostility? Taking a deep breath, he spent a moment choosing this words wisely.

"We're having lunch," he eventually replied. "That's it; just lunch, like we used to."

**And hold me still, bury my heart next to yours**

She pressed her lips together in a thin line, and immediately he recognized the pensive expression of something she didn't like. Of late, it had been a permanent fixture—a mask she wore when he was around—and it crushed him every single time.

"We're reminiscing, Sam," she whispered brokenly, the turbulent of emotions warring on her graceful features. "And that's a dangerous thing to do."

His striking green eyes zoomed up to hers. "It's harmless."

"We're not going back down that rabbit hole—"

"Quinn, I'm not trying to—"

"I can't do this again—"

"I'm not signing the papers."

She stopped short, staring back at him with equal parts shocked and displeasure.

"What?"

Sam carded his fingers through his hair and exhaled a slow lungful of air. "I don't think we should get a divorce."

"Look, Sam, if this is you trying to manipulate me into giving up that—"

"I'm not trying to manipulate you into anything," he groaned, feeling his frustration with her accusations steadily mounting. "I have the documents in my car. I was going to sign it and hand it back to you today, and then I realize that I couldn't do it."

"For the love of God, Sam—"

"Quinn Evans," he growled. "I want to work this out between us."

"We worked this out months ago," she retorted. "Through a mutual agreement, we had decided that divorce is our best option. We're both too stubborn to compromise; we don't even love each other anymore."

**So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light  
****'Cause oh that gave me such a fright**

"I do," he told her feverishly. "We made a promise on our wedding night—a promise that I hope you hadn't forgotten."

She glanced away.

**But I will hold on with all of my might  
****Just promise me we'll be alright**

"I hadn't."

* * *

**6 years ago…**

Tipsy from all the cake and champagne, they stumbled into the suite in a tangle of white silk and ivory tulle and black wool, giggling like they had been at eighteen. Her head was thrown back, strands of blonde hair falling out of her up-do and her cheeks had a lovely rosy tinge that made her inebriated state all the more amusing. He watched with a dopey grin as she leaned down and gathered her skirt in her arms before attempting to unstrap her shoes.

"Do you need some help there?" he asked teasingly as she fumbled, lunging forward when she seemed to have lost her balance and was on the brink of falling flat on her face. He steadied her, keeping an arm around her waist.

"No, I'm—I'm good," she tried and failed to trip over her words, still preoccupied with her damn stilettos. "God, these things are relentless, aren't they?"

Chuckling at her antics, he bent down and effortlessly scooped her up, eliciting a squeal and a fit of laughter from his new bride. Strategically, he placed her down on the luxurious bed and sprawled out next to her, the mattress bouncing beneath their weights. With a grunt, he tugged on the suffocating bowtie and freed the first button of his dress shirt.

"I can't believe we're married," she sighed dreamily, admiring the simple band around her finger.

"You're not going to wake up tomorrow morning and forget about it, are you?" he snickered, turning on his side to face her. Trailing one hand up the dip of her waist, he enjoyed feeling the soft material slide beneath his palm.

"That depends," she burbled giddily.

"On what?" he murmured, pulling her closer.

"If you'll make the night unforgettable," she replied, tongue coquettishly between her teeth.

The little minx.

"Is that a challenge, Mrs. Evans?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "I believe so, Mr. Evans."

"Consider it accepted."

He dove in then, seizing her lips in the way he had wanted to since he had first set eyes on her walking down the aisle. She had been breath-taking then, absolutely gorgeous, with the rays of sunlight filtering through the church windows and bathing her in a warm glow. As she sashayed down the carpet, positively radiant and beaming at him, all he had wanted to do was whisk her away and never return.

Their mouths molded in perfect synchronicity, sliding and parting with an urgency so potent with lust and desire, it was nearly impossible to register anything else but the desperate way that they're shedding their clothes. He made a valiant attempt at not ripping the dress off her body—he despised how there were way too many buttons—but when her nimble fingers snuck beneath his shirt and her nails raked down his torso, he very nearly tore off her bodice. Whimpers and moans, and incoherent whispers filled the silence, urging the couple to newer heights of passion.

The gown landed in a heap by the bedside, his jacket flung across the room, his trousers pooling at his feet, and even though this was a dance they were already familiar with, this night felt like an entirely new experience. Spread out before him, clad only in a matching set of lace lingerie, garters and nothing much else, it was his undoing. Somewhere between the shameless groping and the wandering hands, the pins holding her hair up had come loose, and those luscious curls were fanned out against the pillows. She met his stare head on, her chest rising and falling with each breath, flushed pink with anticipation, and he reckoned he could live through this, until her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

"Jesus Christ, Quinn," he groaned.

He pounced in a gait of a predator about to devour its meal and snogged her senseless. Her naked flesh felt immaculate beneath him, willing and pliant, the softness of her curves sculpted just for his hands, and as he punctuated kisses down the side of her neck to her sternum, breathless sighs of pleasure echoed in his ears. Lavishing and laving at every available surface, he made a journey to the valley between her breasts, feeling the thunderous pounding of her heart beneath his cheek. Her fingers carded through his hair, mussing it up as he created a path down her abdomen, momentarily pausing to dip his tongue in her navel, only to hesitate as he settled at the epicenter of her heat.

"I swear to fucking God, Sam—"

"Now, now," he husked. "You know how I just love it when you swear."

Her hips twitched, bucking upwards, and grinning in devilish delight, he finally sunk his mouth in her warm apex. His name left her in a keening cry that made his swelling manhood jump, and when he found her sweet bundle of nerves and worried it between his teeth, she all but almost ripped his scalp off.

"Now is a good time to stop teasing me and start fucking me, Sam."

When he refused to cease his ministrations, she clamped her thighs down on his head, restraining his movements.

"I'm sorry; do I have to repeat myself?"

He grinned impishly and allowed her to drag him up so that he was perfectly aligned to her slick entrance. Propping his weight up on his elbows, he brushed the tip of his nose against her in a surprisingly tender gesture.

"I love you."

A soft smile graced her features. Gently, she brushed the pads of her fingers down the side of his face, tracing down his jawline.

"I love you too."

He sank into her in one smooth thrust, her tightness sheathing his engorged member like the comforts of a velvet blanket. It was exquisite; the instantaneous way in which hot liquid pooled low in her belly and exploded to the very tips of his toes. He took a moment to gather his wits, fearing it would end all too soon if he so much as moved a quarter of an inch.

"You all right there, big boy?"

He bristled, sputtering. "Boy?"

She waggled her eyebrows. "Big."

Preening, he did a little swivel and pulled out just enough that he was still partially gloved. "How big?"

"Oh, my God, could you just—"

He took the plunge. Gasping at the sudden penetration, she clawed onto his back for purchase, something to anchor her down as he began repeatedly driving himself in and out of her. He wanted to take his own sweet time and cherish this moment of making love to his wife for the first time since exchanging their vows—honest to God, he really did—but his need had reached an all-consuming height; it was pushing the brink of his limits. She must've sensed his urgency—was probably seeking the same release he did—and decided to aid them in their mad chase for oblivion. Wrapping her long, toned legs around his waist, she shifted for better leverage, and he hissed, cursing as he slid deeper in.

"Oh, my God—"

She arched into him as he sped up, and he knew that she was close to completion.

"Come for me, Q."

And then she did, muscles spasming and clenching around him with a long drawn-out moan that triggered his own release. He grunted, nose buried in the juncture between her neck and shoulder and bit down on her creamy flesh as streams of blinding white ribbons shot into her. His mind was wiped out of everything else, all but the satisfaction of being utterly fulfilled. Spent and slippery with sweat-slicked bodies, they curled up together in post-coital bliss.

"Together, no matter what."

She glanced up at him, hazel eyes glazed over at his words, and nodded.

"No matter what."

* * *

**15 April, 2014  
****8:35pm**

"Did you mean it, then?"

His voice cracked, the gravity of their promise resonating only after so many years. Moments of regret flashed before him, the nights of anger, the times where they had been so callous with their hurtful words; it haunted him in the darkest of times. Her features softened even as a litany of emotions flickered in her eyes, and then she was seeking out his hand with hers, coiling their fingers atop the surface of the table.

**But the ghosts that we knew made us black and all blue  
****But we'll live a long life**

"Always."

He nodded, running his thumb alongside hers.

"So what do we do now?"

She took a deep breath.

"We start again."

**And the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view  
****And we'll live a long life**

* * *

**A/N:** The end! It's a bit choppy, I know, and not my best oneshot, I fear, but I wanted to write on a story that focuses on the positive aspects and how remembering the good stuff reminds people of why they fell in love with each other in the first place.

Song used: "Ghosts that we Knew" by Mumford & Sons


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